I pout automatically—it's basically my default expression when being scolded for something I don't think deserves scolding.
My bottom lip pushes out and everything.
"The road and the sidewalk are literally inches apart. Like, maybe six inches. Look around us. There are more horses here than cars. Significantly more. I've seen four horses and one car in the past hour. No one is going to hit me. The statistical probability is minuscule."
It's completely true.
Millbrook's main street is quiet and wonderfully charming, with maybe three cars total parked along the entire two-block stretch we can see. Most people seem to travel by foot or horse-drawn carriage like we're living in some kind of historical romance novel. It's like stepping back into a different century where life moved slower and people had time to appreciate things.
Nash grumbles—this low, rumbling sound deep in his chest that I can feel vibrating against my back where I'm pressed against him. The sensation sends little shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the December cold. He looks down at me with those intense blue eyes that seem to see right through every defense I have.
"Do you always have to be so competitive about everything, big mouth?"
My jaw drops.
"Big mouth?! Do you have to be such a stubborn, possessive Alpha about every little thing?!"
We're scowling at each other now—me craning my neck to glare up at him, him glaring down at me with his arm still locked around my waist like he's not planning to let go anytime soon.
Then a sweet, elderly voice cuts through our standoff like a knife through butter.
"Aww, Harold, look at that young couple! Aren't they absolutely precious?"
A senior couple walks past us on the sidewalk—the woman with silver hair styled in a neat bun, wearing a long burgundy wool coat and carrying a shopping bag that says 'Millbrook Christmas Market' on the side. The man beside her, equally silver-haired and distinguished-looking, tips his brown fedora hat at us with a knowing smile that suggests he's seen this exact scenario play out a thousand times before.
"Remember when we were their age, dear?" the woman continues, her voice warm with nostalgia and affection. "Always bickering about absolutely nothing. Getting into arguments on street corners. That's how you know it's real love—when you can't stop arguing because you care too much to let things go."
Her husband chuckles, the sound rich and knowing.
"Forty-three years of marriage and she still argues with me about everything. Best decision I ever made was marrying a woman who wasn't afraid to call me on my nonsense."
They both laugh together—this sweet, synchronized sound that speaks of decades of shared jokes and memories—and continue down the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the absolute mortification they've just inflicted on us.
My face goes hot. I can feel the blush spreading from my neck to my hairline like someone poured hot sauce directly onto my skin. My cheeks must be the color of ripe tomatoes by now.
Nash's face has a pink tinge too—barely visible on his tanned skin but definitely there if you know what to look for. His ears are red.
Oh my god they think we're a couple. A real couple. Not a fake contract situation. An actual in-love couple who argues because we care. This is mortifying. This is the worst. Why is my heart doing that fluttery thing?
"Look what you're doing!" I hiss at Nash, trying to pull away from his grip, which remains frustratingly immovable like he's made of concrete. "Making people think we're together! Making elderly couples give us relationship advice! The audacity! This is entirely your fault for being all possessive and Alpha-like!"
Nash huffs, his breath visible in the cold December air like little clouds.
"We are together. Literally. Right now. Or are you only interested in Theo because he's supposedly the hottest one in the group?"
My blush deepens to absolute crimson.
"I never said he was the hottest! Where would you even get that idea?! I have never once said those words!"
Nash rolls his eyes in that infuriating way he has perfected—the one that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and punch him.
"What? So it's Grayson then. Is that your pick? The romance novelist rancher? Very cliché of you."
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand—the one not holding my phone that's probably still broadcasting this entire mortifying conversation.
"No! Why are you even bringing Grayson or Theo into this conversation right now?! They're not here! This is about you being impossible!"
Nash smirks—I can hear it in his voice before I even see his face properly.
